


Ginger and the Rum Confession

by Kahvi



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet again, Bertie Wooster is faced with the dilemma of getting out of an unwanted relationship - but this time, the person to whom he finds himself unwillingly attached is none other than his old school friend, Harold "Ginger" Winship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ginger and the Rum Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to m'coll Roadstergal for her ever-amazing encouragement, cheerleading and beta!

Possibly you know Ginger; old school chum of mine. I feel certain I've mentioned him. Tall-ish chap, rather striking looks, all round good egg, really. The last I'd seen of him was when he eloped with Magnolia Glendenen, making a narrow escape from the clutches of one Florence Crayle after a disastrous by-election in Totley on the Wold, where he was one of the candidates. I won't bore you with the details; the whole sorry affair has been documented elsewhere by myself, if you're really interested, though I don't see why you would be. As I said, that was the last I'd seen of him; that is, until one afternoon last March - or was it April - when a telegram arrived.

"Well, read it out then, Jeeves," I said, Jeeves having informed me of its arrival.

"Very good, sir. It appears to be from a Mr. H. Winship."

"Winship?" I frowned. There was something bell-ish ringing at the back of the Wooster brain, but vaguely. "Do we know any Winships, Jeeves?"

"Several, sir. However, I believe that in this particular instance, the gentleman in question is Mr. Harold 'Ginger' Winship." He paused, meaningfully. No one can give pauses meaning quite like Jeeves.

"Not Ginger," I exclaimed, nearly dropping my breakfast toast, marmalade dripping ominously.

"The very same, sir."

"Good heavens; I haven't heard from him in ages. Well, read it, man!"

"Very well, sir." Jeeves gave a delicate cough, clearing his throat. "Mags absolutely imposs. Escaping to London tomorrow."

I turned to glare at him, impatiently. "Well, go on!"

"That appears to be the end of it, sir."

I considered this. "I say, Jeeves; you don't think old Ginger's thinking of stopping by, do you?"

"So circumstantial evidence would seem to indicate, sir."

"Well!" I exclaimed. "Well, well, well!"

"Indeed, sir."

'Indeed sir', indeed. Ginger and I were like Damon and Pythias at school, but as these things often go, the years have seen us drifting apart. While there are days when I hardly remember the man, there are also nights, I have to admit, that I'll wake in a sweat remembering the things the two of us would get up to in the privacy of our rooms. Gentlemen readers will know what I mean; when young men of a certain age are stuck together in an establishment, sharing room and board, certain things happen. Only nature, I suppose, though there are those who all-too-happily deem it unnatural. One grows out of these things. Well, Ginger did. I'm fond of the man, is what I mean to say, and the prospect of seeing him again warmed the cockles of heart, if cockles is the word I want. Regardless, there was warmth.

Jeeves must have noticed something about my visage, for he nodded discreetly, and shimmered off in that uncanny way of his, leaving me to contemplate things in peace.

Ginger. Well, well, well, indeed.

* * *

It being a clement sort of day, as Jeeves would have put it, though perhaps without the 'sort of', I took something of a detour on my way to the Drones for my afternoon drink. Mayfair is a spiffing place for a stroll, though one can all too easily run into unwanted company. Many is the time I've had to escape would-be fiancées and eager aunts on a sunny afternoon. It was, therefore, a cautious Bertram that headed off through the park, looking anxiously around corners. I had very nearly managed to reach the club's front door when a familiar voice rang out.

"I say, Bertie!"

"Tuppy!" I exclaimed, with no little relief. "I thought you were Scotland, working your way into the tartan business?"

He gave me a forlorn look, much like a bull terrier left out in the rain. "It's no good, Bertie. There's no money in it."

"Really? Doesn't everyone wear that sort of thing up there?"

He shook his head. "It's all established clothiers; there's no room for upstarts. And no one seems interested in my new designs." He sighed, hands deep in his pockets, which were usually empty, and apparently so on this occasion also.

"Well," I said, attempting to interject some cheer, "what do you say we get a drink?"

He lit up. "Awfully decent of you, Bertie! It's just, a lot of money went into that business, and it's going to take me a while to get back on my feet again; you know how it is."

I assured him that I did, and together we ambled into the bar for a couple of snifters. You know the way these things often go; a chap runs into another chap he's not seen in a while, and before you know it, the cocktails seem to multiply. I was on my third, I think, and Tuppy well into his fourth, when Catsmeat - Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, that is - walked by with an absolutely spiffing new pinstripe suit.

"I say," I told him, "that's an absolute corker of a suit, Catsmeat."

"Isn't it?" He beamed, holding out the fabric of his jacket for us both to have a feel. "I just picked it up yesterday, from Lieberman's."

Tuppy's grin, which was rather wide already, having grown in accordance with the liquid refreshment we had consumed, grew even more expansive. "Frightfully good, isn't he? He made me a pair of trousers last week to match the ones I lost in Glasgow."

I frowned. "I thought you didn't have any money left, Tuppy?"

He waved a hand, irritably. "Oh, come now, Bertie; a man's got to have trousers. What would you have me do; walk around without any?"

This was a fair point, which I conceded. I went to get us all another drink, and when I returned, praises were still being sung of this Liber-whatsit person. "Good then, is he?" I asked, sipping at my brandy and soda.

"It's not just that," Catsmeat accepted a gin and tonic, "it's the things he says."

"Says?"

"Yes," Tuppy nodded, eagerly. "It's absolutely scandalous."

Confusion must have registered on my face, because Catsmeat cut in hastily to explain:

"He's very particular, you see. And he's not shy about letting you know what he thinks about you choice of cut or color."

"Oh," I said, "like Jeeves."

To this, Catsmeat scoffed. "Not at all like Jeeves, Bertie. Jeeves is _nice_ about it."

"Well..." I began, but Catsmeat interrupted again.

"You know what I mean; he _pretends_ be nice about it. All about keeping up appearances, Jeeves. Not so, this Lieberman."

"He once told me," Tuppy interjected, "that my shoes looked like they'd been _pinched off a vagrant with bad taste_ , only, I don't think he phrased it quite so politely."

"You should go there, Bertie; I'm surprised Ginger didn't tell you about him."

"Ginger?" I was struggling to keep abreast of the conversation, I noticed. I put the b. and s. down.

"Yes, Ginger! You know Ginger, don't you, Bertie?"

"He's not been to London for ages, has he?"

Tuppy and Catsmeat exchanged a look. "Whatever gave you that idea? He's been coming over ever weekend; he beat Tuppy at darts last Saturday. I think that was when you were staying with your aunt."

I mulled this over. I _had_ been away last weekend, enjoying a prolonged stay at my aunt Dahlia's, home of Tuppy's former fiancée Angela; it would, perhaps, be best not to dwell on the subject. Still, I did not make a habit of biffing off to see relatives every single weekend. Ginger had been in the Metrop several times without so much as a telegram or a quick 'what ho' over the telephone? I didn't quite know what to think about that.

Tuppy and Catsmeat soon fell into a philosophical conversation on the subject of waistcoat patterns, from which I politely excused myself and headed back home.

* * *

"Are you familiar with Lieberman, Jeeves?" I asked, as the latter took my coat and hat upon entering.

"That depends, sir; to which Lieberman in particular are you referring? The American senator for Illinois, Mr. Jeremiah Lieberman; the Australian violinist, Mrs. Elizabeth Lieberman; the South Kensington painter, Mr...."

"Yes, all right," I interrupted, in no mood for this particular conversational game. "The gentleman in question is a bespoke tailor in downtown London. You wouldn't happen to know anything about _him_ , would you? Or is it all American senators and South Kensington painters?" I will admit I meant it to sting.

"That would be Mr. Charles Lieberman, of Lieberman's in Regent Street, sir. A rather popular establishment of late, I believe."

"You may well believe! Chaps at the Drones wouldn't stop talking about him; something about the way he treats his customers. Don't quite understand the appeal, myself."

"Quite so, sir." A certain undertone in the man's voice seemed to indicate his approval of my statement. "Though I understand his craftsmanship is excellent."

"That's as may be, Jeeves, but a gentleman doesn't like to be insulted when he's having a pair of trousers fitted. It's hardly a dignified position in the first place; there's no need to make things worse by pointing out ones poor choices in color coordination."

"As you say, sir."

"Anyway, the rum thing is, everyone seems to have gotten the wind about this chap from Ginger. I don't know, Jeeves; person A doesn't hear from person B for months on end, thinking said person is happily on the way to matrimony, only to find that not only has relations soured between person B and the prospective Mrs. B, but persons C, D and all the way to X, Y and Z, meanwhile, have been enjoying the company of person B entirely without the knowledge of person A. I mean, what does that tell you?"

Jeeves, who had retired to the bar and was in the process of fixing up a much needed pre-dinner b. and s., coughed politely. "I could not say, sir. Perhaps the gentleman in question had some particular reason for not informing person A of his whereabouts. It is hard to comment in any greater detail without being in possession of all the facts in the case, sir." He poured out a measure of soda in an apologetic manner, offering the finished product to the young master with an air of the same.

"You're quite right, of course," I told him, taking a thoughtful sip. "Facts are what we need at this junction. I rather think that tomorrow, I shall seek this Lieberman out; see what all the hullabaloo is about."

Jeeves made no comment to this, merely inclining his head. "If you remember, sir, we are expecting Mr. Winship tomorrow."

"Oh, damn and blast Mr. Winship, Jeeves; if he can't be bothered to mention a time of arrival, he can't expect this Wooster to sit around like a lady in waiting, pining for his arrival. If he stops by before I return, you can bally well tell _him_ to wait for _me_."

With a 'very good, sir', Jeeves shimmied off towards the kitchen, and I was left to ponder things in private. Ginger had seemed awfully keen on that Magnolia filly, but the whole thing had happened rather quickly. I will admit that at the time, it had struck my mind that Ginger seemed more concerned with getting away from Florence and the by-election than he was with heading _off_ somewhere else with Magnolia. Which is to say, Magnolia's appeal was less that of the perfect woman, and more that of a woman that wasn't Florence, and very conveniently was there. I didn't mention it to Ginger, of course, partly because it wouldn't be _preux_ , and partly because I hardly had the chance to get a word in edgewise.

Soon enough however, Jeeves announced that dinner was served, and I put the matter from my mind for the time being.

* * *

I set off rather early the next morning, hoping to get to Lieberman's before the afternoon rush. I will admit there was a part of me that, despite everything, was less than keen to keep Ginger waiting, should he indeed arrive while I was away. I was fond of the chap, after all, and for all I knew, he could be in serious trouble. What sort of trouble would have required him to keep his distance from an old school chum I couldn't readily say, but one likes to give the benefit of the doubt.

Upon arriving, however, I was greeted by a short, dour-looking man who asked me if I had an appointment. When I politely told him that I did not, he kicked off with an impressive barrage of expletives, the likes of which I had not heard since my school days, when Bucky Farnsworth got his privates stuck in the door to the linen closet. To this day, I still wonder what on Earth he was doing in there in the first place. At any rate, such was the force of this man's verbal onslaught, that I  
immediately realized it could only be the man himself. He was younger than I expected; I'd say younger than Jeeves, but then I've never been quite certain about Jeeves's age. Young-ish, certainly.

"Mr. Lieberman," I exclaimed, holding out a hand, "I do apologize; I was rather hoping to _make_ an appointment."

He seemed to consider this, keen eyes sizing me up. "If you want to [expletive deleted] apologize for something, [expletive deleted] apologize for those shoes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Charcoal," he explained, "with [expletive deleted] grey pinstripes. Who the [expletive deleted] are you trying to kid, son?"

I rather coldly explained that I wasn't trying to 'kid' anyone, having had the exact same discussion with Jeeves this morning, but he had already produced a measuring tape, directing me dither and yon, and making notes in a little patent leather book.

"Fine," he said, eventually, "I can fit you in Tuesday week."

"Oh. Erm. Jolly good."

"Too [expletive deleted] right, it is. Now push off; I've got other customers to see to, you know."

I thanked him, somewhat stunned, and left. In my haste, I nearly forgot the paper I had brought with me, and had to scramble back to get it, all of which elicited a fresh barrage of expletives. It was all a bit much before breakfast, so I stopped at a small cafe on the way back, hoping Jeeves wasn't expecting to put the full spread for luncheon. I make a careful point of letting him know when I'll be eating elsewhere, not wanting to be one of those chaps that treat the help like walking and talking pieces of furniture.

I needn't have worried; by the time I got back, my attention was caught by a seated, red-haired figure.

"Ginger," I exclaimed, as he rose happily to greet me.

"Bertie! Oh, it's so good to see you!" He embraced me with rather too much passion for my preference given the circumstances, and it was a measured Bertram that pulled away to ask if he would like some tea.

"I'm surprised Jeeves hasn't offered you any," I said, suddenly noting the acute lack of Jeevesness in the vicinity. He tends to hover discreetly when guests are around, only disappearing entirely when asked, or more frequently, when he feels he should.

Ginger waved a hand, which, I couldn't help but notice, had been recently manicured. This filled me with a certain dread; Ginger takes great care with his wardrobe, like any young man about town, but tends to keep his hair a bit too long and other grooming needs untended to unless romance is in the air. If life has taught me anything, it's that visiting friends with romance on their mind invariably spells trouble. "Don't worry," he said cheerfully, "I sent him out on an errand."

I blinked. "Out?"

"Yes, He offered me lapsang souchong, apologizing for being out of oolong, and I told him I have delicate condition that requires me to only drink oolong with half a teaspoon of lemon. I said it was something I picked up in South Africa."

"But you've never been to South Africa!"

"Jeeves doesn't know that."

I was about to counter that Jeeves knows more than you'd think when something else struck my mind. "Look here, Ginger; you can't just waltz into other people's flats and starts ordering their valets around. It's hardly the done thing!"

Ginger gave me a sort of helpless look. "You don't mind, do you, Bertie? It's just I rather wanted to talk to you in private."

I would have protested that Jeeves is the soul of discretion, but I've found that other people have a hard time understanding just how deep the feudal spirit runs in the man. Therefore, I merely nodded sternly; seating myself in the chair opposite Ginger’s and bade him sit down again. So he did, making something of a show out of shuffling his considerably long legs into a comfortable position. Then he cleared his throat.

"It's like this, Bertie," he looked up at me with his slightly wishy washy pale green eyes, giving the appearance of a shark in distress, "I'm in love."

"Yes," I said, hoping against hope that this would be a straightforward thing, "I know. With Magnolia Glendenen. Has the date been set? Shall I send Jeeves back out again for a fish slice post haste when he returns?"

"Not quite," Ginger said, his eyes examining the portrait of my grandfather above my right shoulder. "I wish it were that simple."

"Well, isn't it? You love the girl, you're getting married..."

"I _was_ getting married. That's why I kept coming into London; Mags kept sending me on what she called 'little errands'. You can imagine the stuff; acquiring a set of napkins that perfectly matches the china she inherited from her grandparents, finding stationery for the wedding invitations that are not _too_ expensive but not too cheap either; she even had me looking for _rings_ , Bertie." He gave me another one of those dejected shark looks, and I couldn't help but feel for the man.

"I can't help but feel for you, old thing," I told him, "but surely it'll all be worth it in the end, what?"

Ginger shook his head, despairingly. "I really don't think it will. I wasn't expecting any of that wedding wheeze, you know; sponge trousers and cakes and flower arrangements and scores of women in hats."

"Well, surely you expected to marry the girl?"

"Of course," Ginger exclaimed, his feathers rather ruffled, "I'm not the sort of cad to lead a woman on, you know. It's just, she said she wanted a 'quiet little wedding, nothing fancy'."

I nodded, gravely. When a woman tells you she wants a 'quiet little wedding', she usually means she wants a huge and impressive wedding that simultaneously appears understated. This is, of course, impossible, which never helps matters. Ginger, being fairly new to the whole fiancé business, wasn't to know that, of course.

"And now, here I was, skulking about London trying to find out where to find the cheapest expensive brand of champagne that wasn't actually champagne - you know the stuff."

I told him I did.

"I'd been to five different shops in an hour looking for the perfect set of understated cufflinks when I remembered that I had to get a new waistcoat fitted; I'd lost at least two stone running all these blasted errands, and none of my old ones really fit me anymore. I went to the nearest tailor I could find, and the most extraordinary thing happened."

"Tailor," I exclaimed, "do you mean Lieberman's?"

Ginger's face lit up. "Oh, you've been? Isn't he a marvel?"

I offered no opinion, and he went on.

"Anyway, as I said, the most extraordinary thing happened. As I stood there, measuring tapes whizzing about my head, I realized I'd much rather stand there, being insulted and measured for a suit than get married."

"I know the feeling," I said.

"I don't think you do; I don't think I _ever_ want to get married."

"I say, Ginger; that's putting it a bit rough. You do _love_ the girl, don't you?"

He shook his head. "That's just it, Bertie. I don't. I'm not sure I ever really did."

It was as I'd feared. I tried for a sympathetic look, trying not to panic. I could feel it in my bones that this would somehow end up with me being affianced to someone. I could only hope it wouldn't be Lieberman the tailor.

"That's why I've kept my distance all these weeks. I _am_ sorry, Bertie; but I couldn't very well come waltzing into your flat and lay this at your feet, as it were."

"You couldn't?" Panic was giving way, inch by inch, to confusion. There was a certain thingness in Ginger's eye that I couldn't quite place.

"I sent Jeeves away so we could have this little moment to ourselves; I do hope you'll understand." The thingness was very evident now, practically radiating.

"Erm, quite," I said. How long could it take Jeeves to buy some blasted oolong tea, I wondered. Had he undertaken an expedition to China? I wouldn't put it past the man.

Ginger leaned forward, looking distressingly like Madeline Basset on the verge of declaring a particularly poignant poem. "Bertie, old thing. You know my nature. I've always cherished what we had together at school."

I could only nod; shifting a little in my chair lest he notice to which extent certain other parts of me shared that sentiment.

"One is expected to grow out of that sort of thing, but we both know not everyone does; you haven't, have you?"

Again, I nodded, listening fervently for the sound of Jeeves at the door. I was starting to get a fair idea of just whom it was I would end up affianced to.

"Well, either have I. And I realized something that day, Bertie, as Lieberman was hemming my trousers at no extra cost..." He leaned forward even further, reaching for my hand, but thankfully, _that_ was the point at which the front door carefully opened, and not a moment too soon.

"Jeeves," I yelled, in far too high a register than is my wont, "good man! Any chance of that tea, now?"

* * *

_Something_ must have happened for the rest of the afternoon, but I'll be damned if I can remember any of it. I have a vague impression of Ginger making a huge song and dance about the tea, praising Jeeves for having added the perfect amount of lemon to it, and of Jeeves offering a tray of something or other, which I must have refused, because I was rather more hungry than usual by teatime, when Ginger finally took it upon himself to leave.

As we said our goodbyes, Jeeves shimmered off to the kitchen, leaving us with a moment of relative privacy. At once, Ginger's amicable face twisted into a worried frown.

"We have to talk," he hissed into my ear, rather unpleasantly.

"Do we?"

"Of course we do! You owe me that much."

He looked hurt, so I hastily agreed, sending him out the door before Jeeves would have the chance to return. When he did, ten or so minutes later, brandishing a fresh tray of ice for the bar, I watched him carefully for any trace of comprehension. I've often wondered if Jeeves is related to Sherlock Holmes; he has that same uncanny talent for observation, a huge, fish fed brain of course - not that I can ever remember Sherlock Holmes feeding on fish; not quite the feeding type, if memory serves - and excellent powers of deduction. He even has the same sort of nose, though Jeeves's is charmingly crooked, rather than thin and hawk-like, as that of the great detective. Still, the resemblance sometimes strikes me as uncanny. Now, for example, his alert dark blue eyes looked at me as though they knew all, but were far too discreet to allude to it. Jeeves doesn't listen at doors, of course, but these modern flats have far too thin walls; if the man happens to overhear certain things, well, that's hardly his fault, is it? At least that's the view I've always taken.

"Jeeves," I said, as he was busying himself with rearranging the contents of the bar, "I seem to have landed myself in an awful sort of pickle."

"Pickle, sir?" Jeeves turned his attention away from polishing the cocktail shaker, momentarily.

"Yes, an awful sort of one."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Perhaps you're wondering just what sort of pickle?"

"I couldn't begin to speculate, sir."

"Yes, well." I considered. Jeeves certainly wasn't one to speculate. Perhaps he might, on his afternoon off, indulge in a little speculation on his own time, as it were, but Jeeves was the very picture of proper decorum. The man's veins ran deep with feudal spirit rather than blood. These were all important factors to consider, in my current dilemma.

However. There was a 'however', and a considerable one. Jeeves was a conservative man, not just in matters sartorial, and though he was not always a stickler for the strict letter of the law, I could not see him happily embracing the idea of his master, on any of the young master's friends, being an invert. I couldn't see him going to the police, or worse, my Aunt Agatha, but one simply cannot be too careful when it comes to these things. I've seen one or two friends take the matter too lightly, and though money was thrown at the problem, there were serious and rather unpleasant consequences on which I'd rather not dwell. That, in a nutshell, was the 'debit' side of the posit. in which I found myself.

That said, as I watched Jeeves's attentive figure waiting patiently for my next words, it struck me that there was there also a 'credit'; Jeeves, with his Sherlock Holmes-like powers, _might already know_. If so, it would be outright foolish of me _not_ to unburden myself. The problem, I reasoned, was how to figure out which way it was 'round.

"Sir?" Jeeves coughed, politely. "Yes, well; about this pickle..."

"Sir..." One of Jeeves's eyebrows had begun to twitch, almost imperceptibly; a sure sign that he was reaching the end of his considerable patience. I sighed. You really could not blame the man.

"I suppose I'd better come out with it. It's like this, Jeeves; young Ginger came here today on an errand of a slightly delicate nature."

"I see, sir." If there was some hesitation in the man's voice, it was cunningly hidden.

"We're both men of the world, you and I, Jeeves. I mean, aren't we?"

"I'm gratified that you would consider me such, sir."

"Right. Well, being such a man, I'm sure you're familiar with the sort of thing that goes on between boys of a certain age - can go on, I mean - when those boys are away at school together."

I could practically see the thoughts running about inside Jeeves's head. The thoughts of other men may churn, but the Jeevesian mind is of quite another caliber. _His_ thoughts leap about and frolic, dashing to and fro like Olympians. This heartened me, as it could only mean that he had realized the d. n. of Ginger's errand, but did not find it abhorrent. You can always tell when Jeeves finds something abhorrent; in extreme cases, he has been known to actually _sniff_ disdainfully. Not so much as a nostril hair was in motion now, however; in fact, I was shocked and pleased to see genuine _worry_ in his eyes. "Sir," he said, eventually, "this is, as you say, a matter of a delicate nature. I would ask that you consider carefully, sir, before you chose to take me into your confidence. While you have my word and my insistence that I would never break it, one simply cannot, in this world in which we live, be too careful, and I'm afraid I must insist..."

"Oh, nonsense," I cut him off, more than satisfied that things were firmly on the 'credit' side of things. Spiffing! I wouldn't have had the first clue how to deal with the situation on my own. "I have absolute faith in you, Jeeves. I could wish for no better confidante."

Jeeves almost visibly breathed a sigh of relief. "Very good, sir. I take it, then, that you and Mr. Winship had something of an... understanding when you were at school together?"

I gasped. "Good heavens, Jeeves! How could you possibly know that?"

"It was an inspired guess, sir. And now, despite his impending marriage to Miss Glendenen, he has cast his eyes, as it were, in your direction?"

I could only gape and nod, dumbly, like one of those little fish you can win at church fetes if you throw the ball into their bowls. Rather unfair for the fish, I've always thought.

"I see, sir. And," he coughed, and I saw a certain something in his eye as he cast a glance in my direction - only momentarily, "am I to understand that his attentions are not welcome?"

"They most certainly are not, Jeeves! I mean, _yes_ , I'm fond of the blighter, and I shall always treasure what we had, et cetera, but really, you know; there comes a time in a man's life when he has to take stock of his life and move on. You and I both know I'm not the marrying kind, but that doesn't mean I'm going to throw myself back into the arms of a boyhood fling when that boyhood fling just happens to show up on the doorstep without so much as bunch of flowers! Not  
that flowers would have helped. "

From where I was standing, it looked for all the world as though Jeeves's lips twitched. "Indeed not, sir."

"You understand my predicament? Old Ginger is a decent sort, but like any man who's been forced to rummage through central London for matching sets of napkin rings and understated silverware for months, he's at the end of his tether. If I give him the brush-off just like that, there's no telling what he might do. And furthermore, though Ginger might not be a filly, there's still the Code of the Woosters to be considered. One does not turn down a proposal with an easy heart, even if it happens to be from an old school friend who used to steal the custard creams you'd been sent from home before you even got the chance to look at them. It's not gentlemanly!" I settled back into my chair, crossed my legs crossly, and awaited the patented Jeevesian wisdom. "Well," I said, when no p. j. w. was forthcoming, "what would you suggest I do?"

"I have given the matter some thought, sir."

"And?"

I should not have doubted the man, even for an instant. "I believe I have an idea, sir."

* * *

I had arranged to meet Ginger bright and early next afternoon, at some pub I'd never heard of near Covent Garden. It turned out to be a decent sort of place, mostly salt of the Earth types, and not quite as many young gentlemen of leisure, as it were. It had been Jeeves's suggestion that I meet with Ginger at a neutral location, and quite frankly, I would be hard pressed to imagine anywhere neutraler. Ginger was waiting for me at a quiet table 'round the back, his grey green eyes attempting to shoot bullets at me from across the room.

"Well?" He hissed as I sat down next to him, even before I got so far as to take my hat off.

"Well, what?"

Ginger doesn't really have the sort of face that goes well with anger or irateness. It's rather long-ish, with what I believe they call 'bedroom eyes', and a mouth that gives him the appearance of being Clara Bow in a three piece suit. Nevertheless, he tried his best. " _Well,_ what's it going to be?"

I wrung my hands. "Ah. Yes."

Jeeves's plan had been one of those brilliantly simple wheezes that you immediately want to kick yourself for not having coming up with on your own. But of course, no one ever does, which is why everyone turns to Jeeves in their hour of need. The man has a gift for pointing out the obvious when all seems grey and hopeless, like a ray of righteous clarity. It _had_ seemed both obvious and simple when Jeeves had explained it, but now I found myself actually having to go through  
with the thing, the words rather stuck in my mouth.

The plan, I should probably explain, went thus:

1: Meet Ginger at neutral location.

2: Reveal to him that I still shared his preference for birds over beazels, thus soothing tempers and creating an atmosphere of trust.

3: Gently, but firmly, explain that while I cared for him deeply and was flattered by his interest, my love was of an entirely platonic nature, and thus it could never be. An unacceptable option, of course, had Ginger been female, but of course he wasn't. One could play by different rules, Jeeves assured me, when two gentlemen were involved. I trusted his opinion on the matter; he tends to know about these things.

I've never quite understood what Plato had to do with brotherly love, but the ancient Greeks seemed to hold great stock in it. At any rate, there it was. Simple, gentlemanly, and entirely foolproof.

What neither Jeeves nor I had taken into account, however, was that it did not appear to be entirely Wooster-proof. There I sat, mouth gaping stupidly, while Ginger did his damnedest to look threatening. This consisted mainly of raising his eyebrows, which were now at risk of leaving his forehead altogether. With effort, I gathered myself.

"Ginger, old thing... you know that I'm... well, _like you,_ don't you?"

"What on Earth are you blathering about, Bertie?"

"What I mean to say is, I'm not the marrying kind. One of nature's bachelors."

The eyebrows had come down somewhat, but Ginger still looked at me with distrust and confusion. "Yes, I know. What of it?"

"Ah. Well." It occurred to me that our conversation was not following the agreed-upon script. Possibly because Ginger had not been party to the agreement. "Well, I just wanted to say that I love you."

Ginger frowned. "And?"

It seemed we were going off script altogether. " _And_ , I thought you'd rather like to know."

"Don't be ridiculous Bertie, of course I know."

"You do?"

"I wouldn't have come to you if I didn't know you cared for me. It'd be a mite foolish of me if I didn't, don't you think?"

I hadn't thought of it that way, but of course he had a point. "You have a point."

"So you'll do it?"

I swallowed, noting in the process that my mouth was too dry. Espying a chance to stall, momentarily, I asked Ginger if I should pop off to the bar for some drinks, but this suggestion was waved away in irritation.

"We'll have a pint later, to celebrate."

"Right, of course. More appropriate that." My heart sank. I was beginning to lose hope.

"Hang on though; if you're going along with it, why didn't you bring Jeeves?"

"Jeeves?"

"Yes, it's Jeeves I want most right now, old sport!"

"See here," I said, not a little offended at this sudden about-face, "am I to understand that _Jeeves_ is your intended, now?"

Ginger blinked momentarily in confusion, then slapped the table with a laugh. "Oh, Bertie! Of course not! Was that what you thought?"

"Well, I couldn't help but think..."

"I need Jeeves to help get rid of Mags. You know, in a nice sort of way."

"Ah," I said, somewhat deflated. It had begun to dawn on me that had Ginger really cast his eyes on Jeeves, and not yours truly, the problem would have been considerably easier to solve. Jeeves isn't the type to begin gaping like a fish mid-conciliatory conversation. Well, no such luck.

“I wonder ...” Ginger’s eyes narrowed, an idea clearly getting ready to strike. “Do you suppose he could be trusted? With _everything_ , I mean? It would be jolly nice to have him in our confidence, wouldn’t you say?”

I bristled. Hearing the idea expressed by another man made me ashamed of my own misgivings the day before. The thought of Jeeves betraying a trust was simply _unthinkable_. “I trust Jeeves with my life. You may confide in him as you would in me!”

"Perhaps you could telephone for him?"

Admitting defeat, all I could do was nod, and head for the telephone.

* * *

As it happened, Jeeves wasn't in; what with everything, I had completely forgotten that today was his afternoon off. Ginger was none too pleased to hear it, but as there was nothing either of us could do about the matter, it was decided that celebratory drinks should be had regardless. As it so often does, conversation flowed more easily with a pair of pints between us, and all in all, if it hadn't been for the whole involuntary betrothal business, I would have described the outing as rather enjoyable.

We followed the affair with dinner at the Drones, where Ginger's togs - Lieberman's work, needless to say - were much admired. Goaded by Catsmeat, who improbably chatted on about tweed quality for a full five minutes, I let slip that I had an appointment next Tuesday.

"Tuesday?" Ginger bristled. "But that's days away."

"So I've come to understand."

"But my appointment is tomorrow; I was hoping we might go together."

That didn't sound at all promising, but I couldn't very well protest in public, so I merely gave as nonchalant a gesture as I could manage, and drained the rest of my drink.

* * *

The rest of the dinner, I fear, was something of a blur. I half expected, on waking the next morning, to find Ginger in bed with me, but thankfully, when Jeeves entered in the AM with his usual God-send remedy, he found me entirely by myself. I grasped his offering of the tray like a drowning man, downing it in one foul go. It tasted, as usual, something like a mixture of raw egg, Worcestershire sauce and tomato being forced down your throat by an angry gorilla.

"Thank you, Jeeves," I gasped, slowly returning to myself. "I fear I might have overexerted myself somewhat last night."

Jeeves reacted not in the slightest. "Am I to take it then, sir, that your confrontation with Mr. Winship did not go well?"

"Take it you bally well should, Jeeves! Ginger won't be moved. He says he knows I love him, and he wants your help to get rid of Mags."

"That is unfortunate, sir."

If Jeeves has a flaw, it's his penchant for understatement. "It is beyond unfortunate," I supplied, slipping back under the covers. Jeeves's restorative might have made the flesh ready to face the day, but the spirit was rather less than willing. "He asked me to go with him to that blasted Lieberman today. No doubt he'll want us to get fitted for matching evening wear."

Jeeves's eyebrow twitched. "That would be most unwise, sir; Mr. Winship's coloring differs dramatically from yours. What would suit him would be an unwise choice for you, sir."

"Damn and blast my coloring, Jeeves," I snapped, "there are more important things at stake here! Ginger seems determined to sweep me off my feet, and then off somewhere else, if I'm any judge of how these things go. Paris, presumably. I hear the laws there are more lenient towards the sort of thing a pair like us might get up to." I let my thoughts flow in that direction momentarily, testing the idea out, as it were. As I've said, I am frightfully fond of Ginger, and to someone who had long since come to terms with the idea of a lifetime spent alone, I will admit that there was _some_ appeal to the suggestion.

Jeeves must have caught on to my train of thought, as it were, for he turned his dark blue gaze in my direction, looking all at once more serious than I've ever seen the man before. "Might I ask you a deeply personal question, sir?"

"Go right ahead, old thing."

"Do you... care for Mr. Winship, sir?" Getting this statement out appeared to pain him; the impropriety, presumably.

I mulled the question over. "No," I said, finally, "not in the sense I assume you mean. That is to say, I do care for the man, most awfully, and I can't say that the idea of living with someone who shares my passions isn't tempting."

Jeeves nodded, unusually quiet and attentive.

"But no. It would be a marriage of convenience, and you know my feelings on those."

"Explicitly, sir." Some color had returned to the man's cheeks, and I smiled at him encouragingly. I could tell that something was going on in that impressive fish-fed brain.

"Got an idea then, have you, Jeeves?"

Jeeves allowed the edges of his mouth to turn, just slightly. "Quite possibly, sir."

I gestured, impatiently. "Well then; out with it!"

"I would suggest, sir, that you take Mr. Winship up his offer, and meet him this afternoon at Lieberman's."

"At Lieberman's? Good heavens, Jeeves; didn't you hear what I just told you?"

"Perfectly, sir. If you will remember, Mr. Lieberman is known for his strong opinion and outspokenness on the sartorial choices of his clients."

"I'll say," I muttered, "you should have heard what he had to say about my tie."

"Indeed, sir. My suggestion, therefore, is as follows: You will allow me to select for you an ensemble that, while not distasteful to the eye of the average gentleman or lady, would be an affront to one such as Mr. Lieberman or," he coughed politely, "myself. You will then meet Mr. Winship at the appointed time, and accompany him to Mr. Lieberman's establishment."

I blinked, not following. "I don't follow you, Jeeves. Are you hoping to discourage Ginger by making me appear not at my best? I fear it may take more than an unflattering tie or a mismatched handkerchief to do that. Love, as they say, is blind."

"That may well be the case, sir, but Mr. Lieberman, as previously established, is not. In the manner for which he is so renowned, he will undoubtedly notice your choice of attire, and take the first opportunity to critique it." Jeeves paused. There was a hint of something-or-other in his eyes. "Vehemently."

I gasped. The idea was beginning to dawn on me. "By Jove! Jeeves, you’re a certifiable genius!" It was a corker of a plan. Even the love in Ginger's eyes would die when the object of his affections was exposed in the harsh light of one of Lieberman's barrages.

"You are too kind, sir," Jeeves said, smugly. I could not fault him for it; it was smugness well earned. "However..."

"Yes, Jeeves?"

"There may be a further complication. Would you happen to know sir, if Miss Glendenen is favorably disposed towards you?"

I frowned. "Favorably disposed?"

"Forgive me, sir; it was not my intention to confuse - I was alluding to the fact that Mr. Winship seems determined to break off his engagement with Miss Glendenen regardless of what might happen between between yourself and him. In fact, he telephoned earlier this morning to ask if you had, as he put it, 'gotten round to asking that little favor' of me yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jeeves; the man can be an awful pain. I don't see what it's got to do with me, though?"

"That was what my question to you was designed to uncover, sir; it struck me that, should Miss Glendenen arrive in London only to be dismissed by Mr. Winship, she might turn her attentions elsewhere."

"To me, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

I pulled the covers back in alarm. "I'd lose one unwanted suitor only to gain another. And this one would find favor with Aunt Agatha which is one point I cannot hold against Ginger." I slipped out of bed and into my slippers, accepting the dressing gown which seemed to have materialized in Jeeves's arms on its own accord. "Are you absolutely certain he'd go through with it no matter what?"

"Positive, sir. During our brief conversation he kept mentioning napkin rings, and the proper dimensions thereof, questioning their importance. I believe at one point he was close to weeping, sir."

I nodded, grimly. "Horrid stuff, Jeeves. I sometimes wonder if men are meant for marriage."

"The question is one that has been pondered by many, sir."

"Magnolia is headed towards the Metrop, then?"

"By the 11.36, sir, according to Mr. Winship."

"Right. Well, I doubt we need to worry. Ginger told me that he'd mentioned me to Magnolia, and that she'd asked if I was that ‘tall, gangly fellow who looked a bit like a goldfish.' He thought it rather a funny story."

Jeeves respectfully refrained from comment.

"I don't see what he's got to laugh about; I never told him that the lads used to call him 'Horseface' behind his back when he was acting like an oaf at school." I tightened my belt defiantly.

"It may be true that Mr. Winship's features do tend towards the equine, that strikes me at somewhat unfair, sir."

This mollified me, and I sighed. "You're quite right, Jeeves. I spoke in anger." I did not add that young ladies tended to be rather fond of horses, this perhaps explaining Miss Glendenen‘s attraction to him. It was beneath me.

* * *

Thankfully, Ginger's appointment was at a reasonable hour, allowing for a full spread of Jeeves's excellent b. and e. first, which gave me no end of comfort. Following Jeeves's advice, I neither telephoned nor sent any note of my impending arrival, so as to enhance the effect. Examining myself in the mirror, I imagined the scene; Ginger's eyes lighting up in adoration at my arrival, self greeting him with a hearty 'what ho'; Lieberman taking in the ensemble Jeeves had provided me with, which included that tie I bought at Brighton Pier on a bet, and a waistcoat Jeeves had threatened to use as firelighters in the winter months (the latter of which I personally found rather spiffing), his eyes growing wide; said a. in Ginger's eyes slowly dying as yours truly buckled under Lieberman's relentless onslaught. I nodded cheerfully to my reflection; Jeeves had truly outdone himself this time!

Setting off in the pleasant sunshine - chance of a brisk wind later in the afternoon, Jeeves had warned me - I decided to walk a while, to aid the digestion of the morning meal. You will remember what I said about strolling in Mayfair - if you don't, feel free to go back and read it now, it's only a few pages back. Ready? Right. In the excitement of it all, I had forgotten my own advice, and as such was taken entirely by surprise by the sideways tackle that arrived in the form of Tuppy Glossop.

"Tuppy!" I exclaimed, gathering myself and brushing stray leaves from my overcoat; I had very nearly landed in a decorative hedge. "What in Heaven's name is the matter?"

"You've got to help, me Bertie!"

"Help you?"

He glanced around, in the manner of someone expecting angry relatives to be listening in the bushes. Which was odd, because the only greenery in the vicinity was the hedge I had so narrowly avoided. "It's my aunt."

"I didn't know you had an aunt, Tuppy."

"I didn't. Well, not this one in particular; not until very recently; she married my uncle Maurice. Lady Alice, née Caruthers."

I dithered. Congratulations were perhaps in order, but something at my very core forebode congratulating the acquiring of aunts. "I see."

"No Bertie; you bally well _don't_ see! She wants her money back, and when I told her I didn't have it, she said she expected me to marry her ward, Constance, in the hopes that she - Constance, that is - would 'knock some sense into me."

I furrowed my brow in sympathy, before confusion overcame me. "Money? You don't mean..."

"I _do_ mean! Where do you think I got the dosh to finance my tartan shops? Aunt Alice coughed it up." He shot me a gloomy stare, giving the appearance of a constipated bulldog. "All gone now, of course. No beggar would buy them. I could flee to Scotland and live in one of them, I suppose."

"My heart goes out to you, old thing, but I've got troubles of my own to contend with at the moment." I glanced at my pocket watch, alarmed to see that I would soon be short on time. "I really must dash."

As I tried to leave, Tuppy grabbed me in his considerable fists; holding on to me like a drowning man might cling to a plank of wood." _Please_ , Bertie! I'm not meant for marriage; I haven't got the constitution for it!"

"Few men do," I countered, struggling in his grip. "Why don't you call on Jeeves?"

Tuppy's eyes lit up in thankfulness. "Jeeves! Of course! Oh, you're a lifesaver!" With this, he hurried on, leaving me reeling from the force of his stride. Shaken with the encounter and not daring to risk another, I took a taxi.

* * *

I arrived at Lieberman's shortly before the time, and decided to wait outside, knowing Ginger was never one for promptness. Five minutes later, and past the hour of his appointment, however, I began to worry. Could he have arrived already? Was my watch late? As the task of winding it falls to Jeeves, I didn't think it very likely. Panic gripping me, I entered the shop and climbed the stairs to Lieberman's little fitting room. The man himself was there, giving me an eyeful. His eyefuls are as eloquent as the rest of him, and about as friendly.

"Wooster, isn't it?"

"Erm, yes."

"Where's your friend? He's late."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be along..." I tried a friendly smile, but it wilted helplessly under Lieberman's gaze.

"He'd better. I've got things [expletive deleted] better things to do." He paused, giving my tie a critical look. "That tie is [expletive deleted] hideous."

"Is it?"

"Of course it [expletive deleted] is! And where did you get that waistcoat?"

"I'll just sit over here, shall I?"

"[expletive deleted], no! Stand up and let me get a good look at you!"

I complied, a terrible sinking feeling overcoming me. Lieberman was ranting away, gesturing wildly, using up all of his best material! By the time Ginger had arrived, he would be exhausted on the subject of Wooster, Bertram W., and everything would be lost.

"Go on then," he said, finally, with an air of disgust. "Sit down. I've got nothing more to say to you."

"Surely not!" I cried, just as the shop's door opened, the little bell ringing out like salvation. Ginger! "I'm not entirely sure I heard what you said about my tie; would you mind repeating it?"

Before Lieberman could reply, however, a familiar voice rang out:

"Bertie! You came; how lovely!" Ginger hurried over, that dreaded look of love and affection in his eyes. I greeted him as warmly as I could, and cast a glance at Lieberman, hoping he still had an insult or two in him. It was not to be; Ginger and he were already deep in conversation, discussing the lining of a dinner jacket. I was about to try something drastic, like turning my trousers up or loosening my tie, when the little shop bell rang again, and a willowy womanly figure emerged.

"Mags?" Ginger gasped, dropping the patch of fabric he had been holding, causing Lieberman to swear, loudly.

"Harold, darling!" Magnolia swept in, embracing him rather boldly in full view of both Lieberman and myself. The former cleared his throat, and Ginger untangled himself, guiltily.

"Erm, Mags, light of my life, this is my tailor, Mr. Charles Lieberman."

Magnolia held out a prim hand, and Lieberman grasped it with his usual look of mild suspicion. "So this is where Harold has been spending all his money lately." She laughed, and I recognized it immediately as one women often use as a sort of coded threat. 'I may be laughing now, but you won't be laughing soon,' it tells their partners, and sure enough, Ginger was paling considerably.

"Yes, well, I will need to look good for the wedding."

"You don't need _three_ sets of evening wear for one wedding, darling," Magnolia chided, grinning menacingly.

"I've only ordered two!"

"Well, that's one too many," Magnolia said, firmly.

I felt rather like a spectator at Wimbledon, watching a game of mixed doubles where one partner was missing. My eyes flickered from Magnolia to Ginger and back again, glancing now and then at Lieberman, who was watching calmly from the sidelines, as much a participant, it seemed, as the two parties actually talking. Finally, he grabbed the skirt of Magnolia's white dress, and held it between thumb and forefinger for a moment.

The room fell quiet. Magnolia looked utterly crestfallen, and Ginger stared, his eyes trying to open wider than their limited capacity. I clutched at my knees, biting my bottom lip. Lieberman cleared his throat yet again.

"That," he said, letting the skirt drop, "is a [expletive deleted] disaster of a dress."

* * *

"And that was the end of that, really." I took a long drag on my cigarette, desperately needing to calm my nerves. I had just finished explaining the whole thing to Jeeves, who thus far had stood, listening politely. Now he raised an eyebrow just a fraction of an inch.

"And what did Miss Glendenen reply, sir?"

"Well, she wanted Ginger to defend her honor, naturally."

"And did he, sir?"

"Well, no. He did not. As a matter of fact, he pointed out to her that the dress really could have fit her better around the midriff, to which she scarcely replied at all, beyond slapping him soundly and barging out the door."

"Good heavens, sir. Did Mr. Winship attempt to pursue her?"

"Not really, no. He did lean out the door and yell that the color wasn't very flattering either." I blew out a puff of smoke, contemplatively. "If you ask me, I'd say he was enjoying it."

To this, Jeeves did not reply, returning instead to his duties in the kitchen. All in all, things were looking rather glum. With Magnolia disposed of, nothing stood in the way of me and Ginger taking up together. Ginger had demanded dinner at my flat to celebrate, and I could not find it in myself to resist him. He would be arriving soon, and then what? The equivalent of wedded bliss?

I will admit, at this point I was beginning to examine my own strength of feeling. Would it really be so terrible, a life with this man? Someone who cared for me, wished me well, and had, it should be noted, a lovely set of pins, with a body to match. Well, the pins were as much a part of his body as - say - his arms, but you see what I mean. They were lovely. Like the rest of him. I sighed. Something about it just felt utterly _wrong_. Should a chap just have to settle for what was available? So deep in my reveries was I that I did not even notice the doorbell, and almost jumped when Jeeves entered the lounge to announce the arrival of guests.

No, hang on; guests? "Could you repeat that, Jeeves?" I asked him, scrambling to get up.

"Mr. Harold Winship and Mr. Charles Lieberman, sir."

"Lieberman?"

"Yes, sir."

" _Lieberman?_ "

"That is the gentleman in question, sir."

My ears started up a loud argument with my brain. They could come to no agreement. "Now, look here..." I began, just as Ginger emerged behind Jeeves, grin threatening to split his face.

"What ho, Bertie!"

Following him was a short, dour-faced man, whose dark eyes seemed to be daring the entire flat to repeat what it had just said about his mother. "All right," Lieberman said.

"Yes... what ho and all that," I muttered, lost at sea.

"We're really most awfully grateful to you, Bertie."

Lieberman muttered something, his hand moving nervously against his side, bumping against Ginger's thigh. I looked at Ginger's beaming face. I looked back at the hand. In a flash, it came to me. I gasped, fumbling for the brandy and soda Jeeves was handing me. "Oh." I said. " _Oh._ " As if to clarify.

"Don't keep saying 'oh', you fathead. We're here to celebrate." Accepting a gin and tonic from Jeeves, Lieberman likewise accepting a whiskey sour, he proposed a toast. We so did, chatting idly about this and that. My mind was reeling, and I was thankful when Jeeves shimmered in to announce that dinner had been served.

* * *

Dinner was a silent affair for two thirds of the parties present; Bertram, and Ginger's other half, which Ginger insisted I now refer to as 'Charlie' (the latter offering no opinion on the matter). Ginger himself chattered away contentedly, making numerous requests for toasts with which Charlie and self obligingly complied. Somewhere between the soup and fish, we formed something of a bond he and I; our eyes meeting across the table in unspoken, companionable discontent. He was not an unattractive man, it should be noted; though his overlarge ears and mousy tuft of hair tending to reddish gave the initial impression of an angry gnome, he was slim of frame and rosy of cheek, and I'm fairly sure he had all his own teeth; impressive in a man of his temperament. Still, part of the Wooster pride could not help but quiver at the idea that _this_ was what one had been cast aside for. What could Ginger possibly see in the man?

We had gotten to the brandy and cigars when the grin faded from Ginger's face, and the flow of words from his lips became more of an ebb. "Do you know," he said, swirling his b. thoughtfully, "I hadn't thought it through, but we'll have to leave London."

"What?" Charlie bristled, cigar forgotten. "Are you [expletive deleted] kidding me?"

"I'm not _made_ of money, you know," Ginger eyed him, accusingly. "I can't very well go on ordering bespoke suits whenever I want to see you. And anyway, it's dashed impractical, overall."

I pursed my lips in sympathy. It's one thing for one's uncles or friends to biff off and marry chorus girls or kitchen maids; one simply accepted the matter, once done, and moved on with life. But  
what reason could Ginger give for taking his tailor to a club or restaurant? It was an utterly unlikely friendship; as unlikely, perhaps, as their romance.

"Everyone knows you here, darling," Ginger said, on seeing his companion's grim expression. "I couldn't very well introduce you as my distant cousin Charlie who's fallen on a bit of hard times and needs somewhere to rest his head for a month or twelve." He hesitated. "Perhaps we could go to Paris."

"Paris!" Charlie threw his cigar, narrowly avoided by Ginger. "What about my [expletive deleted] shop?"

"Oh, _that_ ," Ginger waved a hand, and I instinctively leaned back, settling my glass safely on the mantelpiece. I did not need to look in Charlie's direction to see his reaction to that; one develops an instinct for these sorts of things, if one is engaged often enough.

"I'm not leaving my shop, Harry. That's final."

Ginger and I both turned to stare at him; the lack of expletives was a shock, underlining the gravity of the situation. It was then I heard that familiar, lifesaving sheep-like cough from the general direction of the kitchen.

"If I might make an observation, sirs..."

"By all means, Jeeves; observe away!" Ginger waved a hand, snifter and all, nearly overturning on the carpet, to the joint terror of Jeeves and Charlie.

"Very well, sir. It seems to me that the situation could be resolved if Mr. Lieberman could continue his business elsewhere."

"I'm not [expletive deleted] moving my shop to Paris," Charlie grumbled, eyes throwing darts at the much-targeted Ginger.

"Paris might perhaps be a bit extreme, sir, but might I suggest the shores of the river Clyde?"

Charlie's frown reached new and dangerous depths. "What the [expletive deleted] is he talking about?"

"Scotland? You're suggesting we move to Scotland?"

"Just so, sir. As it happens, Mr. Glossop, another gentleman of Mr. Wooster's acquaintance was in communication with me earlier today about a number of shops in Glasgow which he was eager to sell rather urgently."

Charlie leaned forward, all rapt attention. "A _number?_ "

"Three, to be exact, sir. It seems Mr. Glossop had somewhat overestimated the demand for his product. As Mr. Winship's enthusiasm for Mr. Lieberman's work is well known, it would not seem out of character for him to invest in an expansion of the business, and possibly accompany Mr. Lieberman as his business manager."

"Business manager," Ginger exclaimed. "By golly; that just might work!"

I held my tongue. While he was no Tuppy Glossop, Ginger was not widely known for his business acumen. Still, love conquers all, etc.

"There is also, I understand, a furnished flat above the larger of the establishments, which could easily accommodate two single gentlemen and business partners. The asking price is _very_ reasonable, sirs..." The Jeevesian brow raised in question.

Ginger and Charlie turned to one another, their eyes meeting. Now, you know me; I'm not one for flowery depictions of Young Love in Springtime and the like, but I question the heart that would not soar on seeing these two birds, now hewn in one stone, unless I'm mixing my metaphors. The point is, they were practically radiant. Presently, Charlie reached out and grabbed Ginger's hand, both men grinning as digits were clasped. "We'll do it," Ginger said. "We’ll bally well do it!”

* * *

 

"Well," I said, holding out my glass for Jeeves to refill, which he did with in dutiful silent perfection. It was good to know that even when one's boyhood friends run roughshod with one's feelings before running off with bespoke tailors, presumably in a different direction, one's gentleman's personal gentleman could still be entirely depended upon. "Well. Well!"

"Sir?"

"I mean, _well!_ Well, really, Jeeves!"

"Sir, I cannot help but notice that you appear to be repeating the word 'well'."

"What of it?"

"Forgive me, sir; I was merely enquiring after your intended meaning. I am afraid to admit it escapes me."

"Damn and blast meaning Jeeves; it is _meaning_ that I find lacking!"

Though Jeeves was behind me, I swear I could _hear_ the man thinking. "Might you be referring, sir, to the logic behind recent events involving yourself and Mr. Winship?"

"That is exactly to what I am referring, Jeeves. I'll be dashed if I can find any of it. Logic, that is."

I leaned back in my chair, and to my surprise, Jeeves shimmered into view. "Perhaps I could help elucidate matters, sir?"

"I don't know if you could, Jeeves, but you're more than welcome to try." I felt ill at ease, and I could not put my finger on why, exactly. The wounded pride, yes; it is hard not to take it personally when an old flame shows up and turns out to be burning for someone else. But I had no interest in Ginger beyond the platonic; in fact, I wished him every happiness. Still, it had gone rather quickly, had it not? Perhaps that was what plagued me. "What I don't get is how and when they would have met."

"I was under the impression that Mr. Winship had told you himself, sir; he first encountered Mr. Lieberman when sent to London on an errand by his erstwhile fiancée, Miss Glendenen."

"All right; but that can't very well have been the start of anything." I paused, mulling the matter over. "Unless you're saying it was one of those love-at-first-sight things."

Jeeves watched me, and in his eyes I saw a flicker, albeit briefly, of something-or-other. "It is not entirely unheard of, sir. If I may; ' _How now! Even so quickly may one catch the plague?'_ "

"Plague, eh? There's a word for it. Shakespeare, isn't it?"

"Just so, sir. Twelfth Night; the words of Lady Olivia upon dismissing the young messenger Cesario, with who she has fallen instantly in love."

"Quite right. And they get married in the end, do they? Remind me, Jeeves; I can never remember these things exactly."

There was just the slightest hesitation before Jeeves's reply. "In a manner of speaking, sir."

I nodded. "Good. All's well that ends well. Isn't that another one of his?"

Jeeves confirmed that it was, indeed, the title of another one of Shakespeare's plays, and prattled pleasantly on about how it that was the origin of the idiom itself, and how Shakespeare had contributed to the enrichment of the English language. Meanwhile, he sought to divest me of my once-again empty glass in the manner he has of gently pointing out the state of my intoxication, the lateness of the hour, and the wiseness, if that is a word, of retiring to bed for the young master. It is not an overtness of manner that he has; merely a soft push; a delicate whisper. I turned to face him as he whisked away the ashtray.

"Rather lovely idea though, wouldn't you say, Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"Finding one's soulmate. The person against whom all others pale in comparison. The idea that love... something.... everything. Trandwhatsits."

"Transcends, sir?"

"That's the ticket. You've hit the nail on the bullseye. If that's what I mean."

Jeeves made no judgment as to that, one way or the other, and soon I found myself ensconced in the familiar comforts of the master bedroom, pajama'd up and expertly deposited twixt sheet and covers, pillow fluffed just-so. I was feeling the effects of that last, in hindsight ill-advised drink by now, and as Jeeves excused himself and was about to totter off, I halted him.

"Do you suppose there's one for everyone?"

"Sir?" In the darkness of the room, I could not fully make him out, but there was the stoic profile, the strong, slightly crooked nose. It seemed to twitch, ever so slightly.

"A soulmate, if you will. The perfect companion." I knew what had caused me such unease, now; I had been tempted to throw my lot in with Ginger, a man I did not love nor never really had, simply because he was available, and of my kind. Was that to be my lot in life? The idea was a chilling one, despite the comforts of my well-made bed.

Jeeves's answer, from his dark corner, took a while in coming. " _Oh Time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t' untie._ "

And with that, he exited. If there came a 'sir' after it I did not hear, and as sleep embraced me, warm, sweet and welcome, I could not say I would have cared to hear it.


End file.
